Secrets Amoung The Shadows (11 page)

Eliot released a long breath. "I don't know. Probably. The anger in the thoughts is the same as the anger I feel coming from him in the dreams."

"When you come in tomorrow, Eliot, we'll do hypnotic regression to the automobile accident that killed your parents and see what develops from that," she said. "Would you mind if Thurman joins us then?"

He grimaced then changed it to a semblance of a wry grin. "Sure, why not. The more the merrier. Isn't that the battle cry of multiple personality patients?"

It was a terrible joke, but they all laughed anyway, breaking the awful tension.

Eliot stood, setting his empty glass on the coffee table and Greta on the floor. "So I guess I'll see you both tomorrow."

Leanne rose with him. Thurman lifted a quizzical eyebrow, but she shook her head. She could certainly see Eliot out without a guard.

When they stepped outside the porch light was still on, the low-watt bulb glaring in contrast to the surrounding darkness. That was the only reason, she told herself, that she continued to walk with him down the sidewalk and out to his car—to escape the glare.

"I'm sorry," he said, and for a moment she had no idea what he was talking about. Then he gave a short bark of a laugh, lowered his head and ran a hand through his hair. "I feel like I'm apologizing for something somebody else did."

"You mean Edward." She knew she had to encourage him to accept Edward as a part of his own personality, but she was having a tough time accepting it herself. "You don't have to apologize," was all she could bring herself to say.

"Damn it, Leanne, why didn't you use the gun I gave you to threaten Edward?"

She didn't want to admit she hadn't brought it home, hadn't been able to touch the thing after he left. She'd carried it between one finger and her thumb, minimizing the contact as much as possible, and dumped it in a desk drawer. "It wasn't handy. I thought it was you at the door until too late. Anyway, I don't know if I could have." But hadn't she wished for the gun when he'd been at the door, when she'd been in direct confrontation with his anger?

"Don't open the door to me again unless you're sure. Though I'll admit I feel a lot better about everything knowing you have Thurman and Dixie looking out for you."

"I can take care of myself. And Thurman keeps a close eye on me. He's a good friend. A good doctor, too," she added, steering the subject away from her safety and the gun.

"I'm impressed with him," Eliot said. He hesitated, then added, "But not as impressed as I am with you." His voice bordered on being soft, and she had to stop herself from assigning a double meaning to his words, from believing that he meant not only professionally but personally.

"Thurman has had a lot more experience than I have." She wrapped her arms about herself as though that barrier could shield her from the inappropriate, potentially disastrous, feelings she kept having about Eliot, as though she could stop herself from thinking—hoping—that at any moment he was going to replace her self-embrace with his arms.

"Are you cold?" he asked, his gaze dropping to her folded arms. She could feel the spreading heat as it swept over the thin cotton fabric of her shirt, pulled taut over her breasts by her gesture. Against her will, she could feel her nipples tightening, hardening, wanting his touch.

"No," she said, the word intended not only for him but also for her own runaway thoughts.

His eyes narrowed, glowing darkly. "I guess I'd better be going." For a moment he didn't move, then abruptly his hands jerked upward, stopping in mid-air.

She froze in place, desire and fear struggling inside her. Was he going to wrap his fingers around her throat and strangle her before Dixie could reach him? Or was he going to put his arms around her, lower his face to hers and kiss her just as if they were two normal people at the end of an evening together? She wasn't sure which possibility she feared most.

But he halted abruptly with his hands only waist high, and dropped them to his sides, clenching them into fists. "Goodnight, Leanne," he said tightly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

But Eliot was not normal. Their relationship was not normal. He was a mentally ill person, and she was a doctor committed to helping him, though not to sacrificing her own soul in that effort, not to caring for him too much and allowing his illness to tear her heart into shreds.

In spite of her confident assertion that she could take care of herself, a shiver ran down her spine. The really odd thing was, she wasn't sure if that shiver came from fear or anticipation. Either way, Eliot was a dangerous man, a very real threat to her.

Chapter 9

He'd gotten Wayne Palmer's home and work addresses by calling Patsy at Executive Styles. She was reluctant to tell him and warned him that Wayne was big and could be mean. But she finally relented when he reiterated how much he needed to find out what happened to Kay.

Ironic, he thought, that Patsy was concerned about his safety when he might be a murderer.

Palmer's Paint and Body Shop sat between an adult book store and a vacant lot in a seedy section of town. The sound of a grinder and the acrid smells of paint and other chemicals greeted him as he walked into the place.

A man in torn blue jeans, sweat stained tee shirt and safety goggles looked up from sanding a large chalky-looking repair on the fender of an older model sedan. He glanced toward the other side of the room then went back to his work.

Eliot followed the direction of his glance to see a large man in paint-stained coveralls set his sprayer on the floor and lift the visor of his helmet. The man's expression was grim, his bushy eyebrows looming over bloodshot brown eyes.

Wayne slammed a huge fist onto the hood of the car he'd been working on, seemingly oblivious of the wet paint, of the fact that he's just put another dent into the metal. "Damn straight she was my wife. Guess you forgot that when you were boffing her."

Eliot cringed. He had assumed that Wayne wouldn't know who he was, had hoped he'd be able to talk to him anonymously. "I'm sorry about Kay's death."
More sorry than you can ever imagine.
"Is there some place we could talk?"

"Did you kill her?" Wayne demanded. "If I find out you killed her, I'm coming after you. She didn't stand a chance against the likes of you with that fancy car, taking her to those fancy places." Wayne yanked off his helmet and tossed it to the floor, taking a threatening step closer.

This wasn't going at all the way Eliot had hoped. He moved a step closer to Wayne, refusing to let him control the situation.

"Did I kill her? From what I hear, you're the prime suspect. What did you do when she asked you for a divorce?"

Wayne's big face crumpled from within. For a second, Eliot thought the man was going to burst into tears, but then he lunged forward and grabbed Eliot's tie. "I don't reckon that's any of your damned business, fancy boy."

Wayne was no taller than Eliot, though he probably outweighed him by fifty pounds...most of it fat, Eliot suspected. He had no intention of getting into a fight with the man, but he had no intention of being bullied either.

He grabbed Wayne's wrist, holding it in place with one hand, then snapped his other hand up under his elbow, stopping just short of enough pressure to break the joint.

Wayne grunted and jerked back, and Eliot released him. He rubbed his elbow and looked even more furious.

"What did you tell her about a divorce?" Eliot demanded.

"I didn't want her after she'd been fooling around with the likes of you. Does that answer your question? Now get outta here." He turned away, still holding his elbow, and picked up his helmet.

"What was her maiden name?" Eliot called after him, but the big man didn't look back. "Was it Becker?"

Wayne pulled on his helmet. The interview was over. If he could believe Wayne, he'd agreed to give Kay a divorce. Which meant she would have called her lover to celebrate.

If he could believe Wayne.

He didn't want to believe the man, but he couldn't forget the overpowering sadness that had flashed across Wayne's face when Eliot had asked about the divorce. Wayne had loved her, and now he mourned her.

Which didn't mean he hadn't killed her in a fit of anger. He definitely had a temper.

Eliot held onto that thought as he left the car repair shop and drove toward Leanne's office. He had to believe Wayne could have killed Kay; otherwise, he would have to believe Edward had killed her...that he had crushed her throat with the hands that shaved his face in the mornings and put food in his mouth at meals.

Those hands were sweaty on his leather covered steering wheel. Somewhere deep in his gut, he didn't believe Wayne had killed Kay.

***

Eliot parked his car and went up to Leanne's office.

He pushed open the door of her outer office and found it empty. The receptionist had already left. But Thurman would be there today. Though initially he'd been opposed to involving a third party in his problems, it was good that the older man would be here. It would solve the problem of Leanne's safety. It would allow him to meet with her after hours instead of waiting until she could work him into her day schedule.

He perched on the edge of a pale blue chair. Leanne had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to make her office soothing, to relax her patients. The colors were all muted pastels, even in the paintings that decorated the walls. But the effect was lost on him.

Even the thought of Thurman's presence grated on his nerves. In addition to his usual reluctance to reveal himself, he felt resentment toward Thurman, as if Thurman were an intruder. As if Eliot and Leanne shared a closeness that Thurman would shatter.

He shifted uncomfortably in the comfortable chair.

It didn't take a psychiatrist to point out to him the analogy between his teenage experience with Kay and Edward and the present situation with Thurman and Leanne. Except Leanne was his doctor. He couldn't afford to lose control of his hormones where she was concerned.

Leanne's office door opened, and she came out wearing a white suit with a sapphire blue blouse that just matched her eyes. She managed to look soft and sexy in spite of the severe lines of the outfit...and he didn't dare see her that way. He had to see her as a doctor, only as a doctor. Her blasted Code of Ethics aside, if he thought of her as a woman, an attractive woman, he wasn't sure he could make himself trust her enough to spill to her what little was left of his guts.

And he was certain he couldn't trust Edward.

She gave him a tired smile and lifted one hand to rub the back of her neck. In spite of his resolutions, he wanted to push her hand aside and replace it with his own, massage away her tiredness, see if that hidden skin was as soft as her hands...the only part of her body he'd touched...unless you counted his dreams.

And he had no intention of counting them.

A film of perspiration broke out on his forehead as he tried desperately to control his feelings...his desires. Kay had excited his desires, and Kay was dead.

"Eliot," she said, "come on in. Thurman should be here any time. He always leaves things to the last possible moment."

Eliot rose and preceded her into the office. God, he hoped Thurman got there soon. At the same time, he hoped Thurman never got there, that he could be alone with Leanne.

He took a seat in the familiar gray leather recliner and looked around the office—anywhere but directly at her. She'd opened the curtains today. The considerate gesture didn't escape him.

Like her reception area, her office was furnished tastefully in a subdued, professional manner in contrast to her home which was cheerful and comfortable. In her living room last night he'd become entirely too relaxed. For a few minutes he'd forgotten that Leanne was a doctor doing a job. Especially with Thurman taking over that role, for a few minutes he'd fancied an emotional touch between Leanne and him.

He made a resolution to stay away from her house.

But how could he keep Edward away? If there was a connection between the women he was attracted to and Edward, then he had to keep all personal thoughts of Leanne from his mind.

She settled behind her desk and took out her tape recorder. Her actions, her expression, everything about her was completely businesslike. And still he was incredibly aware of her as a woman.

She might be his only chance to achieve sanity...yet at the same time being with her might provoke the next step in his descent into madness.

His palms on the soft leather chair arms were damp.

Leanne studied Eliot and fervently wished Thurman would get there. For the first time since she'd been an intern, she was nervous with a patient.

She'd like to believe that her fear was a normal concern for her personal safety in the presence of a mentally ill person who might be a murderer. But that wasn't all of it. In spite of her common sense and ethical training, something inside her responded to the barely-veiled desire in Eliot's eyes every time he looked at her.

Transference, she told herself sternly. The patient frequently became obsessed with the analyst. An occupational hazard. She was experienced enough to know that.